-OVER  MERION 


UC-NRLF 


102 


POEMS 


F^IBRAK  V 

OK  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 


OK 


^Accessions  No. 


JAN  1895        •'*? 

CLm  No. 


LOWER  MERION  LILIES 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


MARGARET    B.    HARVEY. 


PRESS     OF 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 

1887. 


Copyright,  1887,  by  MARGARET  B.  HARVEY. 


TO    MY    FRIEND 
DR.    HENRY    L.    CURTIS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LOWER  MERION  LILIES     7 

DELILAH 16 

LUNULA 20 

To  A  KNIGHT 34 

MYRTLE  AND  WILLOW 42 

THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY 64 

THE  WILD  GRAPE-VINE 75 

THE  QUEEN  AND  THE  FLOWER 83 

CORN  SONG 87 

PRAYER 88 

REMONSTRANCE 93 

TRUST 96 

SONG 96 

SONG 97 

WINGS  AND  SONG 98 

OUR  NUMERATION 100 

THE  STREAM  AND  THE  SONG 102 

i*  5 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TRANSITION 104 

SONG 106 

HIDDEN  TREASURES    . 107 

To  A  FERN 107 

SONNET 1 1 1 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  HEART 112 

THEN,  Now,  AND  HEREAFTER 112 

MINOR  TO  MAJOR 114 

PREMONITION 117 

FAITH  AND  SIGHT 118 

THE  CHRISTMAS  ROSE 119 

Two  SIGHTS 120 

THE  TRUMPET  CREEPER 121 

REPUBLICANISM  (THREE  GENERATIONS.) 123 

IN  AN  ORCHARD 125 

VALLEY  FORGE  ARBUTUS  .  ,126 


LOWER    MERION    LILIES. 

SWEET,  how  do  you  think  of  a  lily? — 

A  vase  of  frosty  light? 
My  child,  it  is  oftentimes  silly 

To  call  a  lily  white. 
Oh,  yes ! — 'tis  the  popular  fashion 

With  those  who  do  not  know, 
To  speak  of  the  red  rose  of  passion, 

The  lily,  pure  as  snow. 

But  which  of  your  fair  friends  supposes 

That  lilies  white  are  rare? 
And  what  of  red  lilies,  white  roses? 

Their  numbers  well  compare. 
Red  lilies  and  roses  are  plenty, 

White  lilies,  roses,  few; 


LOWER  ME R ION  LILIES. 

But  scarcely  one  woman  in  twenty 
Can  tell  what  I  tell  you. 

The  lily  is  purity's  token  ? 

Red  makes  her  no  less  so; 
The  rose  failed — that's  why  she's  heart-broken- 

To  rival  lily's  glow. 
The  ardent  are  always  the  purest — 

Can  ice  to  sun  aspire? 
For  soul's  burning  life,  symbols  surest 

Are  lilies,  love  and  fire ! 

The  wild-rose,  a  sweet  child  of  nature, 

Is  modest  as  a  maid  ; 
The  fields  suit  the  shy  little  creature, 

And  there  she  should  have  stayed. 
Poor  rose, — how  men  take  her  and  bend  her 

To  fashion's  false  caprice ! 
The  lily,  unrnarred  in  her  splendor, 

Holds  lamps  whose  flames  ne'er  cease! 


LOWER  MERION  LILIES. 

I  see  you  can  scarcely  believe  me — 

But,  still,  I'm  in  the  right; 
Nor  does  my  quick  fancy  deceive  me — 

I  can  convince  your  sight: 
So  come, — we'll  explore,  like  flower-lovers, 

The  region  of  my  birth, 
The  garden  of  all  the  flag  covers, 

The  Paradise  of  earth ! 

Her  hills  rise  sublime  to  the  ether, 

As  queen,  with  star-gems  crowned; 
Her  forests  unshorn  fall  beneath  her, 

As  purple  veil  sweeps  ground; 
The  tinsel-thread  creeks,  fields  flower-dotted, 

Form  gay,  embroidered  vest: 
The  Schuylkill  his  silver  has  knotted 

Like  girdle  round  her  breast. 

Dear  hills — 'tis  the  near  Quaker  City, 
Which  I  from  you  discern — 


10  LOWER  MER1ON  LILIES. 

Ravines,  with  your  lesson,  I  pity 

That  soul  who  cannot  learn: 
For  Zion  stands  there,  at  sight's  ending ! — 

These  hills  are  where  Christ  trod ; 
This  land,  wild  and  fertile,  rare  blending, 

Is  sacred  hence  to  God ! 

I  know  by  the  lilies  which  border 

The  streams  in  every  vale ; 
They  stand,  in  their  sun-burning  order, 

To  tell  the  wondrous  tale; 
Each  one  like  the  candlestick  olden 

Which  shone  in  holy  place; 
And  all  like  the  hosts  whose  harps  golden 

Resound  through  heav'nly  space! 

My  dear,  you  believe  me  rhapsodic — 

You  see  but  yellow-red — 
My  verse,  I  admit,  is  spasmodic, 

But  wait  till  all  is  said; 


LOWER  HER  ION  LILIES. 

Yet  stay — why  should  ladies  hate  freckles 

To  dot  their  vermeil  cheeks  ? 
The  lily,  superb,  not  the  speckles 

Can  mar — you  know  Who  speaks! 

Perhaps  our  soul-spots  are  our  natures, 

As  much  as  color  clear; 
For  these  He  will  never  His  creatures 

Hold  one  whit  less  the  dear. 
Tis  not  the  flower,  blank  as  white  paper, 

Which  He  to  us  commends, 
But  one,  every  petal  a  taper 

To  burn  till  flower-life  ends. 

The  lilies  of  sweet,  sacred  story, 

Blaze  gold-and-coral  flame — 
Our  lilies  are  equal  in  glory — 

Our  lilies  are  the  same! 
Then,  He  through  our  hills,  valley-broken, 

As  in  that  land  hath  trod, 


12  LOWER  ME R ION  LILIES. 

And  marked  with  an  altar-coal  token 
The  touch  of  our  one  God! 

Hush,  heart ! — for  I  feel  the  place  holy ! — 

Each  calyx  bears  to  me 
A  message  from  Him ! — Oh,  how  lowly 

A  prophet-soul  should  be ! 
Our  lilies,  as  those,  are  revealing 

A  balm  for  earthly  ills; 
And  I  can  send  good  news  of  healing 

From  my  ancestral  hills ! 

Of  course,  you  have  read  the  whole  writing, 

But,  did  you  read  aright? 
My  friend,  it  is  profitless  fighting, 

Unknowing  what  to  fight. 
Forget  all  the  tiresome  abstraction 

In  current,  Christian  speech, 
And  learn,  to  your  own  satisfaction, 

What  lilies  really  teach. 


LOWER  MERION  LILIES.  13 

The  Manayunk  factories  below  us 

Send  up  from  each  tall  stack 
Great  masses  of  smoke,  just  to  show  us 

How  black  is  hell's  own  black ; 
Doth  He,  'mid  the  lilies  low  bending, 

Hear  not  the  toilers'  moans; 
Nor  see  Moloch-flames  high  ascending 

From  children's  burning  bones  ? 

Cursed  spot!  here  the  heart  of  a  mother 

Like  thirsty  vampire  grows, 
Drains  life  from  a  child — any  other 

Existence  neither  knows. 
Your  taint,  o'er  our  cloud-forests  hilly 

Would  float,  with  smoke  and  grime — 
But  we,  with  our  antidote-lily, 

Defy  you  for  all  time ! 

We  call  to  your  slaves — cross  the  river 
And  drink  of  love  divine; 


14  LOWER  MERION  LILIES. 

The  lily-cups  gleam,  all  a-quiver, 

Like  sacramental  wine ; 
Let  beauty  dwell  with  you,  as  angel, 

Let  toil  have  shortened  days, — 
For  this  is  the  lily's  evangel 

Turned  into  modern  phrase. 

Let  every  poor  child, — every  woman 

Claim  grace  and  ease  as  dower; 
Are  these  things  too  choice  for  a  human, 

And  not  for  soulless  flower? 
All  bodies  are  meet  for  adorning — 

The  Holy  Spirit's  shrines; 
What  hand  should  be  toil-worn  at  morning, 

And  cold  when  noonday  shines? 

And  men — why  should  work  be  a  passion? 

They  rush,  but  will  not  see; 
To-day,  it  is  too  much  the  fashion 

To  do,  instead  of  be; 


LOWER  MERION  LILIES.  \ 

Far  better  do  naught  than  good  illy — 

The  strong  soul  is — at  rest, 
Or,  grows  like  the  unconscious  lily, 

I  AM — scarce  felt — his  guest! 

Let  youth  to  each  lifetime  be  lengthened, 

True  stature  each  attain; 
By  knowledge  let  each  brain  be  strengthened, 

Each  hand  hold  modest  gain. 
Shall  lilies  have  full  time  for  blooming, 

Fill  topaz  hearts  from  sun, 
And  God's  soul-flowers  wither,  man  dooming 

To  loss  each  suffering  one? 

Take  lily-jets  home  to  your  chamber, 

And  all  your  house  illume, 
And  paint  it  in  scarlet  and  amber, 

Like  radiance  in  the  tomb; 
Let  heart  to  each  heart  hence  be  loyal, 

Love  gild  each  common  thing, 


1 6  DELILAH. 

Your  dwelling  be  evermore  royal, 
You,  children  of  the  King ! 

New  lilies,  in  each  summer's  glory, 

In  this  new  land,  so  dear, 
In  old  tell  the  ever-new  story 

Whose  meaning  grows  more  clear: 
So,  take  all,  this  bloom  incandescent — 

Each  censer,  one  word  gives, 
'Neath  stars  here,  as  there  'neath  the  crescent, 

'Tis  Love — in  God  it  lives ! 


DELILAH. 

A  WOMAN! — but  who  else  would  dare? 

You  nobles,  you  armies,  and  all ! 
You  quailed  at  the  might  of  a  hair! 

By  woman's  hand  saw  your  foe  fall ! 


DELILAH. 

My  country,  my  gods,  gave  me  nerve, 
And  first  taught  me  politic  lie; 

My  home  and  my  kindred  to  serve, 
Doomed  beauty  and  honor  to  die ! 

Great  men  of  my  race,  if  you  can, 

Rejoice  in  a  victory  so  won  ! 
Who,  then,  was  your  foe  ?     But  a  man ! 

To  meet  him  you  had  not  a  son ! 
One  daughter,  more,  less,  counts  for  naught, 

Throw  out  but  her  heart  for  a  bait ! 
Who  asks,  when  the  lion  is  caught, 

How  costly  the  morsel  he  ate? 

My  story  shall  hence,  lion-told, 
Through  ages  and  ages  resound ; 

My  image  all  nations  shall  hold 
As  type  of  deceit  most  profound; 

Yet,  those  who  have  blackened  my  fame 

To  woman  for  succor  shall  trust: 
b  2* 


1 8  DELILAH. 

A  Lion,  their  king,  shall  be  Lamb, 
And  raise  man  and  woman  from  dust. 

But  ah !    that  e'er  men  Lion-strength 

Should  seek  long  to  shear,  as  did  you  ; 
Ah,  fools!     Know  they  not  that  at  length 

The  Lion  will  burst  their  bonds  through? 
Man  never  this  Lion  can  tame! — 

But  some  day  the  blind  world  must  see 
That  Lion  first  showed  heart  of  Lamb 

To  woman, — a  woman  like  me ! 

But,  first,  countless  ages  shall  roll, — 

Then  that  day  shall  dawn  in  the  west. 
'Till  then,  every  woman  her  soul 

Must  dwarf  at  man-master's  behest ; 
Her  great  thought,  her  noble  desire, 

Her  possible  beautiful  deed, 
Must  barter,  mock  love-gems  the  hire, 

A  man-made-up  Lion  to  feed. 


DELILAH. 

But  man-made-up  Lions  must  fall — 

Ah  !   would  that  these  cheats'  costly  food 
Had  torn  from  no  woman-heart  all 

That  else  had  made  life  grandly  good. 
The  true  Lion  ever  must  stand — 

He  sees  but  a  soul — it  is  one — 
A  treasure,  whose  riches  expand, 

Owned  whether  by  daughter  or  son. 

Then  women  shall  carry  the  spear, 

In  that  day,  of  silver-tipped  truth ; 
And  none  claim  sole  right  to  the  clear, 

Pure  torch-flame  of  undying  youth. 
False  lions  may  roar  at  the  gates, — 

The  silver  shall  pierce  them  with  fright : 
No  waste  of  heart-treasures  for  baits ; 

The  fire  shall  put  black  beasts  to  flight ! 

In  that  day,  when  woman  is  crowned 

As  queen,  whom  the  earth  must  long  wait ; 


20  LUNULA. 

When  annals  of  woman,  unbound 

From  strictures  of  falsehood  and  hate ; 

When  woman  makes  heart,  brain  unite 
To  bring  back  all  Eden-joy  fled, 

Some  woman  may  rise  and  make  white 
The  fame  of  a  woman  long  dead ! 


LUNULA. 

A  LITTLE  girl  looks  at  her  fingers, 

And  just  at  each  petal's  base, 
As  she  o'er  her  scale-practice  lingers, 

An  ivory  half-moon  can  trace. 
Forgets  she  the  ivory  below  them, 

The  black  keys  are  also  dumb; 
These  crescents, — why,  she  did  not  know  them, 

Nor  how  they  had  strangely  come. 


LUNULA.  21 

Anatomy  was  her  next  study, 

She  would  in  the  class  inquire — 
Pearl-sickles,  with  rose-leaves  faint-ruddy, 

She  found  were  charms  to  admire. 
Lunu/a,  they  called  every  white  arc, 

A  dear  little  baby  moon  ! 
And  Luna,  you  guess,  would  a  bright  mark 

For  maid-fancy  flights  be  soon. 

Mythology  told  her  the  story 

Of  Luna's  young  shepherd-love : 
To  meet  him  the  Moon  left  her  glory, 

Came  down  from  her  heights  above. 
Alas !   when  we  weak  woman-creatures 

For  love's  dear  sake  must  descend ! — 
This  girl  gave  the  tale  some  new  features 

Just  where  the  books  make  an  end. 

They  end  with  a  little  confusion — 
Diana  controlled  the  moon ; 


22  LUNULA. 

But  Luna's  fate, — what  the  conclusion? — 
Her  fault  was  discovered  soon. 

True  wife,  from  the  heav'nly  portal 
She  went  to  Endymion's  cot, 

And,  having  once  wedded  a  mortal, 
Accepted  her  lowly  lot. 

And  he, — did  he  know  any  better 

Than  many  a  man  to-day, 
That  he  to  that  fair  one  was  debtor, 

Who  came  to  his  house  to  stay? 
Ah !    many  a  woman  her  splendor 

Has  dimmed  for  the  one  loved  best, 
He  blind  to  the  ministries  tender 

Of  her,  his  celestial  guest!     - 

But  Luna  had  wedded  one  earth-born, — 
Her  child  had  a  worldly  taint; 

A  mischievous  bent,  from  her  birth-morn, 
Marred  loveliness  fit  for  saint. 


LUNULA.  23 

Still — that  is  our  own  common  history — 

A  clod,  and  a  fire,  the  same, — 
All  mention — who  solves  the  dread  mystery  ? — 

Earth-lamps  dimming  heaven-flame? 

Lunula,  the  beautiful  daughter 

Of  shepherd,  oft  scanned  the  sky; 
She  knew,  for  her  instinct  had  taught  her, 

That  she  was  of  lineage  high. 
Blame  not,  but  admire  her  the  rather — 

She  feels,  as  her  own,  the  pearl 
Of  princess, — which  no  boorish  father 

Can  take  from  a  true-souled  girl ! 

Some  poet,  a  color-blind  fellow, 

Said  moonshine  was  silvery  light; 
His  followers  could  not  see  yellow, — 

They  thought  the  first  liar  right; 
(To  Satan  we  down  with  the  rest  fall !) 

But  woman's  quick  eyes  compare ! 


24  LUNULA. 

She  knows  that  her  colors  ancestral 
Flame  out  in  her  amber  hair. 

The  moon  was  a  mirror  refulgent 

In  which  she  could  often  trace, 
With  fancy  a  little  indulgent, 

A  very  familiar  face. 
Of  course,  you  will  see,  'twas  no  other 

Than  hers,  to  herself  unknown, 
But  always  she  thought  that  her  mother 

In  radiance  upon  her  shone. 

"  My  mother  is,  then,  moon-descended  ? 

Revisits  her  early  home ; 
But  when  does  she  go  ? — how  attended  ? — 

Or  when  to  our  cottage  come?" 
These  thoughts  were,  to  say  the  least,  vexing- 

The  face  she  again  espied 
One  evening,  while,  still  more  perplexing, 

Her  mother  was  by  her  side. 


LUNULA.  25 

"  Moon-born  ?     Yes,  that  pure,  golden  beauty 

Once  fell  round  me  like  a  cloak; 
But  I,  at  the  clear  call  of  duty, 

Away  from  its  splendor  broke. 
A  woman,  high,  low,  dazzling  glitter 

Tempts  never  to  slight  love's  voice; 
Nor,  be  her  lot  sweet,  be  it  bitter, 

Repent  of  her  own  free  choice. 

"  Return  to  the  moon  !     Daughter,  never  ! 

My  cousin  Diana  reigns ! 
My  car  she  may  ride  in  forever 

For  me,  while  my  love  remains!" 
But  this  did  not  please  the  fair  maiden, — 

Dark  purposes  on  her  crowd, 
Her  heart-rose,  with  black  insects  laden, — 

The  little  moon  hid  in  cloud ! 

This  cloud  took  the  form  of  a  giant, — 

A  vapor  makes  man  full  soon  ! — 
B  3 


26  LUNULA. 

Lunula  grew  fiercely  defiant, — 

Her  mother  should  have  her  moon ! 

You,  children  of  new-fashioned  nursing, 
Call  moon-craving  wishes  vain ; 

How  oft  does  the  tale  need  rehearsing 
Before  you  can  read  it  plain  ? 

Are  you  for  a  climax  preparing? 

She  promised  a  vain  youth  fame— 
You  know  of  her  great  deed  of  daring, 

But  never  knew  whom  to  blame. 
He  bears  undeserved  execration, 

That  boy,  to  her  purpose  found : 
Her  work  was  the  great  conflagration 

Which  razed  the  fair  fane  to  ground ! 

Diana's  vast  temple  in  ashes  ? 

Oh,  that  was  stupendous  gain ! 
But,  ah!   soon  her  spar  teeth  she  gnashes- 

Lunula  had  toiled  in  vain ! 


LUNULA.  27 

Alas,  for  the  poor,  erring  daughter! 

Her  mother  became  her  foe; 
And  -Luna, — the  deed  only  brought  her 

Not  joy,  but  the  deepest  woe : 

"  Dear  Cousin  Diana !     Hence,  never 

A  half-felt  regret  shall  rise; 
I  give  to  you,  freely,  forever, 

My  place  in  the  starry  skies : 
Take  this  as  your  just  compensation 

For  all  your  loss  upon  earth." 
(Myths  dimly  predict  the  salvation 

Attendant  on  every  birth !) 

"  But  my  loss — not  easily  covered 
The  lack  in  my  aching  heart! 
A  child-soul,  like  bird,  round  me  hovered, 

Which  was  of  my  life  a  part. 
'Tis  gone — the  fair  girl  in  my  dwelling 

Is  not  that  pure  spirit's  shrine; 


28  LUNULA. 

You  lost  but  a  temple — who  telling 
Could  measure  a  loss  like  mine? 

"  Not  pillars  of  marble  and  granite, 

Not  statue  of  breathing  stone, 
Not  rule  o'er  a  heavenly  planet, 

Not  pathway  with  jewels  sown, 
Can  equal  a  love  unpolluted 

By  mixture  of  base  desire; 
Or  heart  of  a  woman  transmuted 

To  flame  from  an  altar-fire ! 

"  Maid-cousin !    I  once  thought  a  mother 

For  every  deep  pang  endured, 
Herself,  as  in  battle,  another 

Green  victory-palm  procured ; 
I  thought  every  maidenly  anguish 

Meant  only  a  sure  defeat : 
Those  longest  in  dying-throes  languish 

Who  bore  all  the  fiercest  heat ! 


LUNULA.  29 

4<  But  grief,  which  seeks  solace  so  vainly, 

My  being  has  strangely  stirred; 
I  hear  in  my  deepest  soul  plainly 

A  voice  with  prophetic  word : 
A  maiden,  exalted  of  woman, 

Shall  bring  unto  all  mankind, 
That  respite  from  heart-ills  of  human 

Which  sages  could  never  find. 

"All  maidenhood  hence  adoration 
Shall  claim  as  a  rightful  dower; 

All  motherhood  find  exaltation 
In  maid,  of  all  women  flower. 

We  mothers,  alas !    of  an  angel 
See  left  but  a  crumbling  clod ; 

A  maid  is  a  latent  evangel, 
A  possible  shrine  of  God. 

"  No  child  is  your  constant  attendant, 
But,  then,  you  have  none  to  fail ; 


LUNULA. 

Far  better  no  stars  shone  resplendent 

Than  one  of  them  ever  pale. 
My  daughter  is  possible  mother 

Of  demigod  or  of  clay  ? 
Save  her,  whether  one  or  the  other, 

From  sorrow  like  mine  to-day !" 

Lunula  left  Luna  still  weeping, 

And,  all  in  a  fit  of  pique, 
Went  out  while  the  tired  world  was  sleeping, 

New  chances  for  sport  to  seek. 
She  troubled  the  dogs,  cats,  and  mad  folks, 

And  frightened  the  people  soon : 
In  short,  she  played  off  all  the  bad  jokes 

That  ever  were  blamed  on  moon. 

Since  robbing  Diana  was  bootless, 
She  gave  the  queen  a  bad  name; 

Say  not  such  a  purpose  was  fruitless, — 
We  all  succeed  at  that  game: 


LUNULA.  31 

We  ruin  our  friend's  shrine  of  beauty, 
Are  piqued  that  he  does  not  care, 

Heed  demons  who  call  it  our  duty, 
And  tangle  burs  in  his  hair. 

That  friend  may  have  felt  resignation, 

And  never  sought  to  repair 
His  temple,  but  thinks  all  creation 

At  league  with  burs  in  his  hair! 
But  what  can  he  do? — ah,  the  pity! 

What  did  one  of  heav'nly  birth  ? 
Her  great  loss  was  only  a  city, 

Her  small,  her  good  name  on  earth. 

Still  wrapped  in  her  mantle  of  glory 
She  swept  with  a  mien  as  proud 

As  though  just  as  well  snake  as  story' 
Could  creep  to  celestial  cloud. 

The  world  called  her  blind,  deaf,  or  jealous, 
Nor  thought  she  had  wounds  to  hide; 


32  LUNULA. 

But  woman,  or  moon,  men  can  tell  us 
Of  naught  but  her  public  side. 

Lunula  observed, — this  mien  haughty 

Was  more  than  matter  of  course ; 
She  realized  then  she  was  naughty, 

And  melted  with  quick  remorse. 
Poor  creature !   she  was  not  the  first  one 

To  value  rare  nectar  spilled ; 
Now,  which  of  us  all  is  the  worst  one? 

We  all  have  our  song-birds  killed. 

A  wandering  child  back  to  true  mother — 

Ah,  where  is  a  sight  so  sweet  ? 
Cold  earth  feels  the  same  when  another 

Warm  spring  runs  with  bloom  to  greet : 
The  mother's  dead  heart  flows   in  rivers 

At  touch  of  child's  sunny  hair; 
One  blossom-smile  rioting  quivers 

O'er  face  long  of  beauty  bare. 


LUNULA.  33 

Oh,  faith  in  our  kind  had  we  ofter, 

What  strength  we  could  gain,  impart ! 
Not  satin  in  chestnut  is  softer 

Than  white  in  the  roughest  heart! 
Not  hair  of  a  woman  is  finer 

Than  trust,  after  deed  abhorred ; 
Not  voice  of  a  woman  diviner 

Than  soul  to  its  height  restored ! 

Lunula  was  not  wicked  wholly, 

But  true  in  her  deepest  heart; 
Henceforth  felt  exceedingly  lowly, 

And  acted  a  faithful  part. 
Her  mother,  a  moonstone  dividing, 

The  fragments  gave  her  to  view 
And  wear,  to  save  all  future  chiding, 

Remind  her  of  duty,  too. 

She  set  for  all  time  the  mode  followed 
In  every  land  upon  earth ; 


34  TO  A   KNIGHT. 

But  Nature  has  helped  her,  and  hollowed 
Pearl  segments  for  baby's  birth. 

To  us  as  to  her  they  say,  Better 
Be  good  than  win  fame  or  gold. 

End — tale  which  in  figure  and  letter 
A  girl  from  finger-ends  told. 


TO    A    KNIGHT. 

A  FAIRY  story, — shall  I  tell 

The  wondrous  tale  anew? 
You  fed  on  elf-lore,  I  know  well, 

As  fabled  birds  on  dew, 
When  yet  your  cheek,  as  petals  soft, 

Like  pink  sabbatia  bloomed, 
Ere  heart-wrung  drops  to  dimness  oft 

Your  eyes'  blue  gentian  doomed. 


TO  A   KNIGHT.  35 

You  know,  then,  how  the  spotless  knight 

The  princess  in  disguise 
From  mischief-breathing  gnomes'  fell  might 

Released,  and  bade  her  rise 
In  regal  state,  his  strong  sword  trust, 

Nor  heed  her  baffled  foes, — 
As  dewdrop  pure  dissolves  the  dust 

Which  dims  the  royal  rose. 

Suppose  I  told  the  tale  anew 

Which  you,  a  child,  oft  craved, 
And  said  the  valiant  knight  were  you, 

And  I  the  princess  saved? 
You  smile — life's  commonplace,  you  say, 

In  this  prosaic  age; 
Men  throw  the  fairy  ferns  away 

To  gather  wheat  and  sage. 

I  know  you  scarce  can  understand, 
Though  you  may  take  my  word; 


u&i7BRsiTr: 
^nroitfi^ 


36  TO  A   KNIGHT. 

Suppose  I  brought  you,  in  my  hand, 

A  tiny  humming-bird? 
If  I  had  caught  it  on  the  wing 

My  palm  would  hold  it  dead ; 
And  you  would  see  a  poor,  crushed  thing, 

But  painted  green  and  red. 

What  could  its  color  say  to  you 

Of  life,  like  darting  flame, 
Ere  from  the  woodbine's  wells  of  dew 

To  my  death-grasp  it  came  ? 
But  had  I  not  that  vision  blurred 

Of  quivering,  rainbow  light, 
How  could  you  know  that  any  bird 

Had  met  my  wondering  sight? 

Believe  in  light  for  color's  sake, 

In  light  all  colors  live ; 
And  my  imperfect  story  take 

For  what  it  fain  would  give. 


TO  A   KNIGHT.  37 

Believe  a  lily's  spar-white  urn 

Is  all  your  fancy  sees, 
Nor  tear  the  sepals  off  to  learn 

If  there  lurk  treacherous  bees. 

Then,  can  you  not  believe  me  true 

If  you  I  call  the  knight, 
Myself  the  princess,  as  anew 

The  elf-tale  I  recite? 
You  bear  no  lance, — it  matters  not, — 

No  century  I  slept: 
That  man  was  knight,  whate'er  his  lot, 

Who  sighed  when  woman  wept ! 

That  woman  justly  rates  that  sigh, 

While  yet  her  eyes  are  wet; 
She  feels  her  royal  state,  so  high 

By  knightly  homage  set. 
Such  sighs  her  tear-filled  lids  unclose 

As  zephyrs,  dewy  buds; 


38  TO  A   KNIGHT. 

Each  drop  like  queenly  jewel  glows, 
Which  diadem  bestuds. 


And  yet  you  scarce  can  comprehend 

The  story  I  would  tell ; 
Could  you  from  sun-gilt  fields  descend 

In  deep  and  darksome  well? 
The  dripping  prison-walls  so  high 

Would  round  your  vision  close ; 
The  sapphire-pearly  gleam  of  sky 

Would  only  mock  your  woes. 

Across  the  ether-disk  might  dart 

A  bird  with  crescent-wings ; 
No  sign,  to  your  despairing  heart, 

Of  rising  home  he  brings — 
Your  home,  like  his,  the  world  of  light, 

Of  color,  sweets  and  flowers, 
Of  loves,  of  music,  joys  of  sight, 

And  rest  in  sheltering  bowers. 


TO  A   KNIGHT.  39 

You  could,  in  fancy,  take  such  place? — 

Then  know  what  fate  was  mine, 
When  through  my  dusk  I  saw  your  face 

Like  orb  of  morning  shine. 
I  dreamed,  perhaps, — your  outstretched  hand 

Was  all  that  I  could  tell,— 
I  woke  in  clover-painted  land, 

And  not  in  chilling  well. 

The  fragrant  billows, — how  they  rise 

And  fall,  a  clover-sea! 
You  saw  them  not, — could  scarce  surmise 

How  crimson  they  might  be. 
What  wonder,  then,  when  from  the  field 

I  bore  you  trophies  red, 
You  fancied  I  the  quest  would  yield, 

And  roses  give  instead? 

Ah,  knight!     That  was  an  erring  thought! — 
My  clover  you  despised, 


40  TO  A   KNIGHT. 

As  though  the  blushing  bloom  I  brought 

Might  be  a  rose  disguised ; 
True,  clover  sweet,  like  youth's  lip  glows, 

Floods  meadows,  hills  above, 
A  clover,  still,  is  no  more  rose 

Than  gratitude  is  love. 

But  if  you  erred, — I  must  believe 

You  could  not  read  my  tale ; 
Glycine's  purple  plume  at  eve 

Is  like  acacia's  pale. 
How  could  you  pearl  and  amethyst 

Without  the  daylight  see  ? 
Or  how  a  tangled  chord  untwist 

Before  you  knew  the  key  ? 

Now,  surely,  you  can  take  this  key 

And  follow  out  my  theme 
Of  fairy  tale  and  chivalry, — 

Are  they,  to-day,  a  dream  ? 


TO  A   KNIGHT.  4I 

The  stream  which  turns  bread-grinding  wheels 

Still  flows  as  free,  as  fast, 
Still  shimmering,  nacre-tints  reveals 

As  in  the  ages  past. 

The  knight  of  old  a  guerdon  wore, 

By  lady  given  him, 
Although  she  oft  was  little  more 

Than  vision  fair  but  dim: 
In  misty  veil  your  spirit-eyes 

Discern  me  from  afar; 
But  I,  through  prayer,  can  cull  a  prize 

For  you, — a  heavenly  star! 


42  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 


MYRTLE    AND    WILLOW. 


MY  heart  was  like  an  argosy 

Within  whose  roomy  hold 
Were  rare  and  priceless  treasures  hid 

And  gems  and  glittering  gold. 
The  morn  was  fair,  the  sky  was  clear, 

I  sent  my  bark  away. 
Blithe  rose  my  song,  as  glad  I  thought 

Of  her  returning  day. 
"  Oh,  swiftly  sail,  my  argosy ! 

Sail  o'er  the  billowy  sea! 
And  then  with  richer  stores  return, 

Return  again  to  me !" 

My  heart  was  like  a  treasure-house, 
So  high,  so  wide,  so  deep, 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  43 

That  even  I  could  never  tell 

How  much  it  had  to  keep. 
I  only  knew  that  lower  far 

Than  e'er  my  touch  could  reach, 
I  only  knew  that  higher  far 

Than  measures  thought  or  speech, 
Were  strange  and  wondrous  riches  piled, — 

But  they  confused  my  sight, 
And  I,  with  awe  and  wonder  filled, 

Shut  out  the  glaring  light. 
Again  I  sang,  but  now  my  song, 

Like  solemn  organ's  roll, 
Flowed  out  to  sea,  my  argosy 

To  follow  and  control. 

n. 

Closed  be  thou,  heart,  I  fear  me 
To  know  thou  art  so  near  me, 
Yet  holding  ever  in  thy  silent  deep, 
Whether  I  work  or  wake  or  sleep, 


44  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

Whether  I  laugh  or  sigh  or  weep, 
Strange,  wondrous  things — I  cannot  tell 
Whether  they  bode  me  ill  or  well, 
Which  of  the  marvels  thou  dost  hide 
May  to  me  joy  or  grief  betide. 
Closed  be  thy  doors,  let  me  not  know 
Either  my  happiness  or  woe, 
Till  shall  my  argosy  return, — 
And  by  its  spoils  I  then  shall  learn 
What  is  the  worth  of  that  rare  gold, 
House  of  my  treasures,  thou  dost  hold. 

in. 

Softly  the  breezes 

Whispered  to  me 
News  of  my  vessel, 

News  from  the  sea. 

And  the  birds  warbled 
That  they  could  tell 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  45 

How  fared  my  vessel, 
Fared  ill  or  well. 

IV. 

Filled  are  her  sails 

With  spicy  gales; 

Filled  is  her  hold 

With  precious  gold. 

Faster  and  faster  she  nears  her  own  land, — 
But  a  new  master  has  taken  command. 

How  his  eyes  beam, 

Chrysolites  seem ! 

Glowing  his  hair 

As  topaz  rare ! 

As  he  has  conquered  your  vessel  so  true, 
So,  when  he's  anchored,  will  he  vanquish  you. 

v. 

White  as  my  vessel's  sail, 
So  turned  my  cheek  to  pale ! 


46  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

Still  as  the  touch  of  Death, 
So  sudden  stayed  my  breath. 
Fluttering  as  frightened  bird, 
So  quick  my  heart  was  stirred. 
Fierce  as  the  thunder's  path, 
So  leaped  my  soul  in  wrath! 

VI. 

But  with  a  sound,  like  wild  wind's  moan, 
Deepening  as  deepens  tempest's  groan, 
Trembled  my  treasure-house,  its  door 
Opened  with  clang,  as  ne'er  before, 
Out  from  it  gleamed  a  dazzling  light — 
Wondrous  and  overwhelming  sight ! 

VII. 

And  while  I  stood  and  quivered  o'er,  from  out  the 
portal  came 

A  maiden  clad  in  spotless  white,  with  heart  of  liv- 
ing flame. 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  47 

Pure,  innocent,  majestic,  her  bright  radiance  round 

me  shone, 
When  suddenly  I  saw  her  face, — the  features  were 

my  own ! 


Myself,  yet  not  myself  she  seemed,  as  though  you 

bent  to  look 
At    your    reflection    cast    below    in    rapid,    turbid 

brook ; 
The  one  is  like  the  other,  yet,  one  dim,  one  bright, 

in  sooth, — 
I  was  the  clouded  image,  she  the  glorious  living 

truth. 


I  felt  it.     In  an  instant  flashed  this  thought  upon 

my  brain: 
Down   from   his   heights   man   scans   himself  with 

sorrow  and  with  pain. 


48  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

He  thinks  that  he  is  the  grotesque  he  sees  within 

the  brook — 
With  envy,  awe,  and  pity,  too,  it  up  to  him  must 

look. 


She   gazed   on   me — a   sudden   thrill  of  pride  and 

wonder,  blent 
With  joy  and  deep  humility,  was  through  my  being 

sent. 
My  voice  was   hushed,  but   right   to   speak   made 

e'en  my  whisper  bold, 
And,  "Soul,"  I  said,  "I  know  thee  now — the  veil 

has  been  uprolled." 


"  Now  come,  thy  treasure-house  explore,"  in  gentlest 

tones  she  said; 
I  wondering  trod  the  shining  track  which  followed 

where  she  led. 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  49 

Light  trembled  round  her  footsteps,  gleamed  from 
out  her  waving  hair, 

Her  trailing  robes  of  whiteness  shed  a  glory  every- 
where. 


And  as  she  went,  it  seemed  in  joy,  deep  vault- 
doors  open  flew, 

And  glittering  heaps  and  matchless  gems  appeared 
in  dazzling  view. 

Stilled,  trembling  at  the  sight,  her  voice  like  softest 
music  came, 

"  Tis  thine,  but  not  all  thine,  if  thou  wouldst 
merit  woman's  name — 


"It   must   be   shared.     And   hadst  thou  turned  in 

pride  from  me  to-day, 

This  treasure-house,  with  all  its  stores,  had  crum- 
bled fast  away, 
c       d  c 


50  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

Instead   of   this    strong   fortress    filled    with    more 

than  monarch's  gold, 
A  ruined  heap,  with  stubble  piled,  had  lain   'mid 

damp  and  mould. 


"Thou  shudderest!     I  mean  thou  shalt.     Though 

mildly  beam  mine  eye 
On  thee,  if  true,  an  angel  with  a  two-edged  sword 

am  I! 
And  I  can   smite  with   lightning  if  thou  scornest 

my  behest, — 
Though    softly    I    can    nestle    as    sweet    babe    on 

mother's  breast. 


"Thy  Soul  felt  terror  lest  thou  should  deny  her 

ruling  power, 
And   then   thy    tenderness    had    fled,   and    all    thy 

woman's  dower. 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  51 

Yet  one  last  only  hope  was  hers  that,  through  the 
flesh-disguise, 

She  in  her  glory  might  appear  before  thy  scale- 
freed  eyes. 


"And  now  less  beautiful  I  seem,  because  the 
earthly  pall 

Is  closing  o'er  me  once  again,  but  ere  its  shroud- 
ings fall, 

Entwine  thine  arms  around  me  thus,  and  take  me 
to  thy  breast, 

And  I  shall  still  abide  with  thee,  an  ever-present 
guest." 


Close-clasped   we   stood,  and   then — can   heaven   a 

higher  bliss  afford? — 
New  blood,  new  life,  new  breath,  new  hope  seemed 

through  my  being  poured. 


52  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

My  eyes    reflected   hers,   my  heart   in   flame  from 

hers  outburst, 
My  workday  serge  her  white   robes   hid,  another 

self  I  nursed. 

As  awed  the  chaff-glumes  sure  must  be  that,  hid 

within  them,  hold, 
Though  worthless  they,  the  form  alike,  the  grains 

of  precious  gold, 
So  purer  grew  the  air  I  breathed,  and  holy  ground 

I  trod— 
I    held,  had   seen,  the    living   saint,  who    one  day 

should  see  God ! 


VIII. 

I  felt  my  spirit  see, 
Out  from  the  sand, 

Swiftly  my  argosy 
Nearing  the  land. 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  53 

I  felt  my  spirit  twine 

Out  o'er  the  wave 
Round  one,  as*  wreathing  vine, — 

One  good  and  brave. 

I  felt  my  spirit's  voice 

Out  flow  in  song, 
Singing,  Rejoice,  rejoice ! 

Comes  he  ere  long. 

IX. 

Like  the  tender  trilling 

Of  enraptured  birds, 
Felt  my  heart's  glad  thrilling 

At  my  Soul's  sweet  words  : 

"  Oh,  my  bonny  lady, 

Gayly,  blithely  sing! 
All  things  now  are  ready 

To  receive  your  king. 


54  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

"  You  have  found  the  treasures 
Which  your  heart  doth  hold, 

Purchase  choicest  pleasures 
For  him  with  its  gold. 

\ 

"  From  the  cold  world  hidden 

Let  your  board  be  spread, 

Where  the  one  guest  bidden 

Comes  to  break  its  bread. 

"Wearied  from  the  billow 
Welcome  him  to  rest, 

Let  his  downy  pillow 
Be  your  loyal  breast. 

"  He  for  grace  will  pray  you, 
At  your  feet  cast  down ; 

Bid  him  rise  then  may  you, 
King  to  take  his  crown/' 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  55 

X. 

The  world's  gold  is  aye  cold, 

To  cold  gold  speaks  again; 
But  heart's  gold,  in  young,  old, 

Glows  e'er,  'mid  joy  or  pain. 

For  world's  gold  is  food  sold, 

And  it  may  spread  a  feast; 
But  heart's  gold  doth  cheer  hold 

Enough  with  fare  the  least. 

The  world's  gold  throws  rich  fold 

Of  fabric  o'er  the  form ; 
But  heart's  gold  sends  unrolled 

A  mantle  ever  warm. 

The  world's  gold,  to  enfold, 
Soft  spreads  a  couch  for  sleep; 


56  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

But  heart's  gold  doth  untold 
Refreshment  ever  keep. 

The  world's  gold  has  been  doled 
To  me  in  scanty  store; 

But  heart's  gold  my  knight  bold 
Shall  have  for  evermore. 


XL 

I  see  her,  I  see  her! 

Like  snow  are  her  sails ! 
She  has  weathered  the  billows 

And  conquered  the  gales ! 

'Tis  coming,  'tis  coming ! 

My  leaping  heart  knows  ! 
When  we  scent  the  rich  perfume 

We  look  for  the  rose. 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  57 

Tis  nearer,  'tis  nearer! 

My  heart's  strangely  stirred ! 
When  we  hear  the  sweet  music 

We  look  for  the  bird. 

And  nearer,  and  nearer! 

Heart,  why  so  fast  beat? 
Overwhelming,  like  grape-blooms, 

Love  staggers — so  sweet! 

I  see  him,  I  see  him! 

Heart,  why  these  alarms? 
He  has  weathered  the  billows 

To  rest  in  my  arms. 


XII. 

Why  should  I  weep  ?     The  rain  has  tears  let  fall ; 
The  cruel  rain  that  swept  away  my  all. 


58  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

Why  should   I   writhe?    The  waves   still   surging 

keep  ; 

The  cruel  waves  that  dragged  her  down  the  deep. 
Why   should   I   mourn?      The   blast   enough   has 

sobbed ; 

The  cruel  blast  that  my  soul-mansion  robbed. 
Why    should    I    moan?     The   wind    enough    has 

sighed ; 

The  cruel  wind  that  widowed  me,  no  bride. 
Let  them  find  voice!  Enough  for  me  to  lie 
Silent  as  are  his  heart-beats — ah,  to  die! 

XIII. 

Forever,  forever, 

In  fathomless  deeps, 
Lies  my  argosy  foundered, 

And  there  my  love  sleeps. 

Forever,  forever, 
In  ruin  and  cold, 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  59 

Lies  my  treasure-house  fallen, 
And  buried  its  gold. 

'Twas  going,  'twas  going! 

My  heart  felt  it  all. 
When  the  rose  is  the  fullest 

We  know  it  must  fall. 

'Twas  failing,  'twas  failing! 

Yes,  heart,  thou  wert  right. 
When  the  bird's  song  is  sweetest 

Twill  soon  take  its  flight. 

'Twas  dying,  'twas  dying! 

Heart,  cease  thy  complaint, 
When  the  grape-scent  is  heaviest 

We  know  we  must  faint. 

'Tis  ended,  'tis  ended ! 

Heart,  break  in  this  moan ! 


60  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

He  has  sunk  'neath  the  billows, 
And  I  am  alone. 


XIV. 

When  the  lily-buds  are  scattered, 

Withered,  sink  beneath  the  lake; 
When  the  soft,  warm  nests  are  shattered, 

As  the  boughs  which  bear  them  break ; 
When  the  song  stops  in  its  fulness, 

As  the  singer  sudden  fails ; 
When  the  day  goes  out  in  dulness, 

As  the  gray  its  crimson  veils, — 

Think  you  not  the  lily-voices 
Sing  the  hidden  whiteness  lent, 

And  the  broken  nest  rejoices 

That  it  knew  what  quick  life  meant? 

Tenderly  the  faltering  singer 

Dwells  upon  the  finished  strain ; 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  6l 

And  the  day  in  gold  will  linger, 

Though  'tis  masked  with  clouds  and  rain. 

xv. 

My  daily  life  is  lonely, 

Small  joys,  large  cares  are  mine, 
But  I  have  felt  the  only 

Earth-touch  that  is  divine. 
My  heart  has  ceased  complaining, 

My  weariness  finds  rest, 
For  I  have,  e'er  remaining, 

An  angel  as  my  guest. 
I  feel  her  arms  close-clinging, 

Caresses  ever  sweet, 
I  hear  her  soft  voice  singing 

Wherever  tread  my  feet. 
I  know  her  robes  of  whiteness 

Beneath  my  world's  dress  fall, 
And  her  celestial  brightness 

Sends  beauty  over  all. 
6 


62  MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW. 

My  common  ways  are  holy, 

So  by  her  presence  made; 
Pursuits,  bojth  grand  and  lowly, 

Receive  her  glorious  aid. 
And  each  day  seem  I  nearer 

To  heaven,  that  safely  keeps 
My  loved  one,  growing  dearer 

Forever,  though  he  sleeps. 
Yes,  whelming  was  my  sorrow 

When  Love  came  but  to  go ; 
Yet  pain  I  dare  not  borrow, 

Small  -room  have  I  for  woe, — 
For,  in  that  day  of  glory, 

I  saw  my  Soul  alone, 
And  learned  the  heavenly  story, — 

The  Soul  and  Love  are  one. 

XVI. 

So,  like  lily-buds  I  cherish 

Hidden  whiteness  in  my  breast ; 


MYRTLE  AND    WILLOW.  63 

And  the  thought  can  never  perish 
Of  warm,  quick  life  held,  like  nest. 

And  the  song  I  never  finished 
Floods  my  heart  with  melody; 

And  my  day  whose  light  diminished 
Left  a  glory  here  with  me. 

And  my  Soul  is  ever  singing, — 

Though,  I  think,  her  face  has  grown, 
As  more  heavenly  light  'tis  flinging, 

More  like  his,  less  like  mine  own. 
For  his  head  is  ever  lying 

In  sweet  image  on  her  breast, 
Eyes  and  heart,  in  love  undying, 

Hold  him  as  their  constant  guest. 

Like  a  golden  chain  they  hold  him, 

Crystal  cavern,  safely  keep; 
Like  a  crimson  cloud  enfold  him, 

Sea  of  glory,  hide  him  deep. 


64  THE   CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

So  she  still  is  singing  ever, — 
Sweeter,  sweeter  grows  her  song, 

For  she  knows  the  glad  forever 
Dawns  its  welcoming  ere  long. 


THE    CAVERNS    OF    LURAY. 

i. 

The  Entrance. 

BE  still,  O  quaking  heart!     The  guide  before 
Will  lead  me  through  that  yawning  cavern-door; 
Each  step,  untried  by  me,  is  known  to  him 
Who  first  explored  the  passage  dark  and  dim. 
So  Thou,  dear  Lord,  wilt   guide  me  through  the 

gloom 
That  meets  me,  shrinking  at  the  awful  tomb ! 


THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY.  65 

II. 

Invocation  to  the  World. 

Come,  proud  World,  thy  history  read! 

Come,  for  here  are  shown 
Types  of  every  age  and  deed 

Stamped  in  speaking  stone ! 
Once  did  God's  own  fingers  write 

On  rock-tables  law? — 
Not  alone  on  Sinai's  height 

Man  Jehovah  saw ! 


III. 

Apostrophe  to  the  Caverns. 

Soundless  depth  and  scaleless  height, 
Fearful  black  and  blinding  white ! 
And  what  more  ?     Ah,  who  can  tell  ? 

Light,  height,  heaven !— dark,  depth,  hell! 

e  6* 


66  THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

IV. 
Address  to  the  Cave,  Poetry  and  Art. 

What,  O  Cave,  is  most  like  thee? 
Boundless  realm  of  Poesy, 
Thronged  with  images  so  fair, 
Veiled  in  shades  from  Day's  rude  glare. 
Poetry,  give  place  to  Art, 
She  must  claim  a  sister's  part. 
Every  shape  that  man  e'er  knew, 
Here  the  model  first  she  drew; 
Here  she  stored  the  rare  surprise, 
Once  too  rare  for  mortal  eyes ! 

v. 
To  Music. 

Music,  all  thy  chords  are  mute, 
But  a  sound  may  turn  to  light; 


THE  CAVERNS   OF  LURAY.  67 

My  rapt  heart  will  thrill  as  lute, 

Draw  its  ecstasy  from  sight. 
Ghostly  shadows  chill  my  blood, 

Trembling  like  a  minor  wail; 
Columns  soar,  like  anthem's  flood, 
While  my  tear-wet  cheeks  grow  pale. 


VI. 

To  the  Human  Heart. 

Most,  perhaps,  like  my  poor  heart, 
Greater  than  I  know; 

Hiding,  from  the  throng  apart, 
Worlds  of  joy  or  woe. 

Robes  and  crowns  and  graves  and  pits- 
Dare  I  speak  of  more? 

Hush!     It  God  alone  befits 
Soul-caves  to  explore ! 


68  THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

VII. 
To  Life  and  Death. 

Life,  see  palaces  and  halls, 

Fit  for  royal  state; 
Death,  see  shrouds  within  their  walls, 

Mockery  of  fate. 
Life,  see  chambers,  ball-rooms,  baths, 

Hints  of  banquetings ; 
Death,  see  sumptuous  cenotaphs, 

Sepulchres  for  kings. 


VIII. 

To  Fancy. 

Fancy,  did  I  hear  thy  song? 

Weak  are  notes  of  mine; 
Realms  of  loveliness  belong 

But  to  thee  and  thine. 


THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY.  69 

I  will  listen  to  thy  lay, 

Heed  each  word  thou  hast  to  say — 

Sing,  the  Caverns  of  Luray! 


IX. 

Fancy's  Song. 

When  fairies  were  banished 

From  Eden's  bright  bowers, 
Before  they  had  vanished 

They  plucked  all  the  flowers 
With  lily-white  petals, 

With  veinings  of  red, 
All  glittering  metals 

From  earth's  deepest  bed, 
All  snow  from  the  mountains, 

All  pearls  from  the  sea, 
All  spray  from  the  fountains, 

And  brought  them  to  me. 


70  THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

Sweet  Fancy,  oh,  make  us, 

They  said,  A  new  home 
Where  men  cannot  wake  us, 

And  saints  cannot  come. 
Unearthly  in  glory, 

Transcendently  fair, 
Unequalled  in  story 

In  all  upper  air. 
The  gnomes  here  shall  revel 

In  endless  delight. 
Nor  angel  nor  devil 

Intrude  on  their  sight. 


Here  gardens  shall  flourish, 
Unkissed  by  the  breeze; 

Lost  babes  that  we  nourish 
To  statues  shall  freeze. 

The  pure  Sleeping  Beauty 
Shall  here  find  her  rest; 


THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY.  71 

The  Prince,  bound  by  duty, 

Set  out  on  his  quest. 
Our  Queen's  love,  a  mortal, 

We  safely  shall  hide, 
Lest,  passing  the  portal, 

He  leave  his  fay-bride. 

x 

The  Cave's  History. 

They  spoke;   she  wrought.     Now,  all  complete, 
A  thousand  wondrous  fabrics  stand; 

But  elves  have  gone,  —  for  mortal  feet 
Have  found  their  way  to  Fairyland. 

XI. 

Address  to  Love. 

Why  so  silent,  Love, 

Mightier  than  Death, 
Heart  of  God  above, 

Quick  with  human  breath? 


3  SIT  BB  SI  XT 


72  THE   CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

Love's  Song. 

All  my  sense  is  drowned 

In  a  rapture-sea ! 
I,  a  king,  am  crowned 

With  new  royalty. 
As  that  pillar  pure 

Shines  through  gloom  and  mocks 
Darkness — as  endure 

Those  eternal  rocks : 
So  my  life  is  told, 

So  my  changeless  truth — 
All  the  world  is  old, 

Here,  eternal  youth ! 

Shafts,  like  crystal  spires 
Strive  to  reach  the  dome; 

Lambent,  icy  fires 

Meet  them  as  they  come : 


THE  CAVERNS  OF  LURAY.  73 

So  Love's  heart  ascends, 

Paradise  begun — 
Earth  with  heaven  blends — 

Earth  and  heaven  are  one ! 

XII. 

To  Faith. 

Faith,  oh,  tell  me,  can  thine  eyes 
Pierce  through  earthly  shrouds  ? 

And  do  radiant  visions  rise 
Where  before  were  clouds  ? 

Faith's  Reply. 

Yes — a  goodly  company, 

Clad  in  spotless  white, 
Symbolled  immortality, 

Meets  my  raptured  sight. 

Temples  built  by  God's  own  hands ! — 
Harps  and  wings  and  palms ! — 


74  THE   CAVERNS  OF  LURAY. 

Domes  which  countless  conquering  bands 

Well  might  fill  with  psalms. 
Ah !  if  light  of  heavenly  tint 

Through  these  marvels  shone, 
They  the  Lamb-lit  streets  might  hint, 

Or  the  great  white  throne ! 

XIII. 

Conclusion. 

Be  still,  O  quaking  heart!  when  comes  my  doom, 
And  I  must  pass  the  portals  of  the  tomb, 
A  wondrous  vision,  grander  than  to-day's, 
Perhaps  will  burst  upon  my  raptured  gaze ! 
Then  let  me,  Lord,  walk  closely  by  Thy  side, 
As  bravely  as  I  follow  now  my  guide ! 


THE    WILD   GRAPE-VINE.  75 


THE    WILD    GRAPE-VINE. 

0  MARY,  darling,  yes,  I  know,  I  know ! 

I  know  thy  precious  heart  is  stricken  sore — 

1  know  thy  sun,  which  rose  in  crimson  glow, 
Has  set  in  clouds  to  rise  again  no  more. 

And  thou  art  still  a  child  in  weight  of  years, 
But,  ah,  my  soul ! — so  old  in  weight  of  woe ! 

Dear  sweet,  thy  burden  will  not  fall  till  tears, 
Like  swollen  winter  torrents,  rush  and  flow. 

Weep  on,  dear  lamb,  and  let  thy  head  recline 
Above  thine  image  on  my  faithful  breast — 

Would  God  some  weak  though  potent  word  of  mine 
Could  give  thee — no,  not  joy,  but  quiet  rest. 


76  THE    WILD    GRAPE-VINE. 

Here,  when  a  child,  like  blue  hepaticas, 
Have  I  gazed  down  into  thy  tender  eyes ; 

Here,  bright  's  the  gold-rod  sceptre  Autumn  has, 
Oft  have  I  held  thy  head,  a  glittering  prize. 

And  didst  thou  think,  dear  maid,  thy  beauteous  veil 
Thrown  o'er  a  spirit  rare  and  pure  as  dew, 

With  its  rich  broidery  of  snow-drift's  pale 
And  sunset's  red  and  gold,  were  all  I  knew? 

I,  who  have  seen  the  masking  brown  unclose 
And  show  the  pearls  in  lilies  set  apart; 

I,  who  have  seen  unfold  the  blushing  rose, 
Displaying  golden  treasures  in  its  heart; 

I,  who  have  seen  the  filmy  fern's  green  curl 
Outspread  in  plumy  banners  on  the  breeze; 

I,  who  have  seen  the  quivering  leaves  unfurl, 
To  tell  of  thrilling  broods  beneath  the  trees  ? 


THE    WILD   GRAPE-VINE.  77 

Yes,  dear,  I  knew.     I  know  when  eyes  grow  deep 
It  is  because  of  other  eyes  enshrined ; 

Yes,  and  I  know  that  hearts  no  longer  sleep 
When  they  for  worship  flaming  altars  find. 

Sob,  dear!     Tis  well !     I  know  when  eyes  grow  full 
It  is  because  o'erflooded  with  their  tears ; 

(Soft !     God    shall    wipe   them !)    and    when    hearts 

grow  dull 
That  ashes  cold  must  fill  the  hearths  for  years. 

Dear,  I  have  seen  the  lily's  pearls  turn  brown, 
As  dark  as  were  the  calyces  of  old ; 

Sweet,  I  have  seen  upon  the  rose-leaves  blown 
Worms  crawling  thick,  to  fatten  on  the  gold. 

Pride,  I  have  seen  the  fern's  soft  tender  curl 
Shrivelled  away  into  a  thread  decayed ; 

Love,  I  have  seen  the  blasted  leaves  awhirl 

A  dead  brood   o'er,  'mid  wrecks   the   storm  had 

made. 

7* 


78  THE    WILD   GRAPE-VINE. 

Forgive  me,  precious  !    Would  I  wound  for  naught? 

Would  I  be  kind  or  true  to  mock  at  woe? 
Could  I  be  fit  to  soothe  thee,  if  I  sought 

To  gild  a  sword  more  sharp  than  death,  I  know  ? 

Then  weep  thy  fill.     And  come,  come  closer,  dear, 
My  child  of  love, — I  ne'er  had  one  of  blood, — 

And  now  my  simple  story  thou  wilt  hear, 
Perchance — 'tis  of  a  tree  within  a  wood, 

I  loved  it  when  'twas  but  a  sapling  small, 
As  straight  and  slender  as  a  winsome  maid  ; 

I  loved  it  when  its  swelling  arches  tall 

Spread  o'er  the  moss  beneath  a  softening  shade 

Of  all  the  trees  that  form  our  woodland  bowers, 
For  spreading  grace,  for  glossy  leaves  of  green, 

For  rich-hued  column,  lavish  wealth  of  flowers, 
The  rare  wild-cherry  is  the  forest-queen. 


THE   WILD   GRAPE-VINE.  79 

And  oft  1  mused,  How  like  a  woman  thou ! 

Above  thee  smiles  kind  heav'n,  and  on  thee  sheds 
Its  gentle  dews ;   soft  breezes  kiss  thee  now, 

And  flowery  loveliness  around  thee  spreads. 

And  yet  thy  peerless  beauty  is  not  all — 
A  shelter  strong  to  tender  birds  thou  art, 

And  soon  a  fleecy  cloud  will  o'er  thee  fall, 

And   blooming   sweetness   prove   thy  wealth   of 
heart. 

But  scarce  appeared  the  bloom,  like  snow  as  well, 
Which  wafted  overwhelming  odorous  clouds, 

When  frowned  the  skies  and  blinding  torrents  fell 
And  hid  all  earth  and  heav'n  in  leaden  shrouds. 

I  must  be  faithful.     Oft  a  stroke  must  fall. 

From  heav'n,  before  so  kind,  a  glittering  dart 
Crashed  through   the  quivering   branches,   scathed 
them  all — 

The  fair  young  tree  was  stricken  to  the  heart ! 


8o  THE    WILD   GRAPE-VINE. 

Its  tender  verdure,  shrivelled,  dropped  to  dust; 

Its  filmy  blossoms,  scorched,  to  ashes  fell ; 
All  scarred  and  blackened,  as  from  fiery  lust, 

It  seemed  a  trophy  plucked  from  flaming  hell ! 


What  terror!     Yet  no  less  o'erwhelms  the  soul 
Of  her,  who  in  her  youth  and  beauty's  power — 

(While  heav'n  smiles  o'er  her,  round  her  softly  roll 
The  thrilling  joys  of  each  enchanting  hour, 

And  to  her  sheltering,  open  heart  appeals 
All  innocent  and  tender,  round  her  feet 

Rare  beauty  springs,  and  in  her  veins  she  feels 
A  wondrous  hint  of  coming  bliss  complete — 

And  then  it  dawns  upon  her  raptured  sense, 
And  in  celestial  sweetness  vision  brings 

Of  ripened  fruitage) — trembles,  no  defence — 
Ah,  darling,  tears  are  precious,  blessed  things  ! 


THE   WILD   GRAPE-VINE.  8 1 

When  they  have  drained  away  excess  of  grief, 
Ere  time  has  been  for  their  refilling  sure, 

I  can  relate  the  sequel — 'tis  but  brief, 

Yet   may    it   help    thee    grow    more   brave    and 
pure. 

Years  passed,  and  once  again  my  wandering  feet 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  woodland  strayed, 

My  sense  was  burdened  with  the  perfume  sweet 
Which   trembled,   flame-like,   'neath    the   solemn 
shade. 

I   upward  glanced, — I  scarce  could  think  it  true, 
Yet  there  before  me  stood  the  blasted  tree; 

But  o'er  its  wounds  a  wreathing  grape-vine  threw 
A  tender  mantle  flowing  fair  and  free. 

Again  in  glossy  garniture  of  green 

And  mist  of  odorous  blossoming  it  stood ; 

Again  it  lodged  the  birds  and,  star-like  seen, 
About  its  foot  bloomed  florets  of  the  wood. 


82  THE    WILD    GRAPE-VINE. 

Heav'n  smiled  above  it  still,  and  when  soft  showers 
Fell  'mid  its  branches  it  could  stay  their  fall; 

And  promise  of  ripe  fruitage  gave  its  flowers— 
A  wondrous  compensation  breathed  in  all. 

Again  I  mused,  How  like  a  woman  thou ! 

Pierced  to  the  heart,  the  world  may  know  it  not, 
For  veiled  in  beauty  as  of  old  time  now, 

Thou  hast  a  noble,  though  a  lowlier  lot. 

A  beauty  not  thine  own  but  given  thee, 

So  that  thou  shalt  no  less  work  out  God's  will 

He  smiles,  and  breezes,  joylike,  ripple  free, 
And  loveliness  is  blooming  round  thee  still. 

Still  canst  thou  hold  the  weak  and  innocent, 
And  if  less  fair  than  thine  the  borrowed  flower, 

Far  sweeter  fruit  than  thine  had  been,  though  lent, 
Shall  be  to  thee  a  rich  and  royal  dower. 


THE   QUEEN  AND    THE  FLOWER.          83 

Within  these  mossy  walks  and   fern-fringed  aisles, 
These  thickets  where  the  netted  sunbeams  fall, 

Where  brown   birds   sing,   and   grass,  in   seeming, 

smiles, 
Amid  the  trees  thou'rt  loveliest  of  all. 

Yes,  darling, — I  have  done.    My  words  are  weak — 
Love,  mightier  than  Death,  mocks  human  art ; 

I  cannot,  though  I  fain  would  comfort  speak — 
The  tree  was  always  stricken  to  the  heart ! 


THE  QUEEN  AND  THE  FLOWER. 

DEAR,  can  you  form  conception  how  that  a  queen 

might  wander 

Among  her  lovely  gardens  and  pleasant  woods 
and  hills, 


84          THE   QUEEN  AND    THE  FLOWER. 

And  know  they  all  were  hers,  all   the   trees   and 

flowers  seeming 

To  listen  for  her  coming,  with  joyous  sighs  and 
thrills  ? 


The  passion-flowers  above  her  would  bend  to  touch 

her  bosom, 
The    conquered    lilies    meekly    would    rise    her 

hands  to  kiss; 
Like   blessings,   climbing-roses   shed   petal-showers 

o'er  her; 

Because   her   robe    swept   by   them,   the    daisies 
sway  in  bliss. 


The   golden   sun   in   heaven   would  flush   all  with 

his  splendor, 

Which   upward   then    reflected    would   light   her 
waving  hair; 


THE   QUEEN  AND    THE  FLOWER.          85 

Soft  zephyrs  from  the  blossoms  would   steep   her 

sense  in  perfume, 

All   beauty  round  would   heighten    because   she 
lingered  there. 

And  now,  suppose  she  stands  where,  in  wild  and 

rugged  sweetness, 

Like  opal-tinted  censer,  a  brier-blossom  hides; 
Forgets  she  all  around  her,  drops   all   her   hands 

have  gathered, 

Upon   her  heart  to    nestle    desires    naught   else 
besides. 

But,  ah !   'tis  far  beyond  her,  she  cannot  hope  to 

grasp  it, 
E'en  the  attempt  would   give   her  but  bleeding 

hands  and  torn; 
The  simple  flower  mocks  her;  for  queenly  fingers 

never 

Were  meant  to  reach  in  thickets  'mid  sharp  and 
tangled  thorn. 


86          THE   QUEEN  AND    THE  FLOWER. 

What  cares  she  now  for  castles,  for  hills,  for  lawns, 

for  forests, 

For  burning-hearted  gardens,  for  trees   of  wav- 
ing green? 

They're    hers,   indeed,   they   own    her — but    sover- 
eignty, what  is  it, 

When  just  to  this  sweet-brier  alone  she  is   not 
queen  ? 

Ah !  if  I  were  a  queen  in  the  world  of  highest  beauty, 
A  kingdom  I  had  conquered  by  my  God-given 

power, 
And   gained   from   men   true   praise,   from   women 

love  and  worship, 

What  could  I  lack?     Why,  nothing, — just  noth- 
ing but — that  flower. 

Oh,  yes!     Though  every  nation  should  speak  my 

name  with  gladness, 

For  noble  words  and  actions  immortal  I  should 
be— 


CORN  SONG.  87 

As    naught    were    glittering    honors    and    fadeless 

wreaths  and  plaudits, 

If  one   heart,   true    and   precious,    for   sovereign 
owned  not  me. 


CORN    SONG. 

WHY  do  you  nod  so  gayly  toward  me, 

Corn,  won't  you  tell  me — whom  do  you  see? 

Is  it  my  Clara,  dainty  and  fair? 

Like  your  own  silk,  so  flossy  her  hair. 

Why  do  you  toss  your  tassel  so  free? 

Corn,  you  are  graceful — so,  too,  is  she. 

Why  do  you  wave  your  leaves  on  the  air, 

Like  the  green  ribbon  that  floats  from  her  hair? 

Corn,  do  you  think  I  never  was  told 
What  you  have  hidden,  fold  over  fold? 


88  PRA  YER. 

Do  you  not  know  that  Clara's  rare  heart 

Hides  from  the  world  its  treasures  apart? 

Corn,  you  may  think  your  glumes  tightly  rolled,- 

Can  I  not  guess  they  cover  your  gold  ? 

You — I  mean  Clara — scarcely  need  start 

If,  ere  October,  I  read  your  whole  heart ! 


PRAYER. 

WHY  should  I  pray  for  one  I  love? 

Can  God  my  faint  petitions  hear? 
He  sits  enthroned  so  far  above, 

How  can  He  care  whom  I  hold  dear  ? 

Poor  heart,  we  all  have  asked  the  same, 
All  we  who  love  have  felt  as  faint; 

God  seems  a  vague,  mysterious  name — 
A  name  can  hear  no  soul's  sad  plaint. 


PR  A  YER.  89 

They  tell  me  some  are  God's  own  saints, 
Far  more  like  Him  than  such  as  we; 

So  holy,  that  from  earthly  taints 
They  are  for  evermore  set  free. 

These  speak  of  peace  and  inward  joy, 

That  lift  the  soul  above  all  sin : 
No  pains,  no  cares,  no  doubts  annoy 

Him  whom  the  Spirit  dwells  within. 

Ah,  me !     You  ask,  Does  heav'nly  grace, 
From  one  who  has  to  grief  succumbed, 

A  spirit-chloroform,  efface 

All  pain,  and  leave  the  soul  benumbed  ? 

Soul's,  body's  stupefaction  spurned 
One  Holy,  'mid  the  depths  of  woe ! 

But  can  you  find  Him  ? — you  have  turned 
To  those  who  bear  His  name  below. 


go  PR  A  YER. 

To  God,  they  say,  their  hearts  aspire, 
As  birds  would  pierce  the  ether  blue ; 

Poor,  trembling  soul,  of  them  inquire — 
What  would  they  say  to  such  as  you  ? 

Say?     Glibly   Holy  Writ  expound 
To  your  rebellious  heart  so  hard, 

Like  piety-machines,  just  wound 
To  grind  out  gospel  by  the  yard! 

Machines  that  Christ's  own  words  click  out, 
As  every  one  were  marked  with  steel ; 

Each  budding  hope  clip  off  as  doubt, 
And  crush  it  with  an  iron  wheel. 

These  like  our  God! — are  these  His  saints? 

Ah,  then,  indeed,  we  weep  alone! 
If  God  is  higher  still,  our  plaints 

Can  never  reach  His  ears  of  stone. 


PRAYER.  91 

Why  comfort  on  the  heights  e'er  seek? 

Far  better  faint  in  vale  below; 
The  sunlight-glory  gilded  peak 

Is  only  made  of  rocks  and  snow! 

Cease,  then,  your  prayers — God  cannot  bless 
Your  loved  one,  and  your  prayers  are  vain, 

If,  nearing  God,  you  love  the  less 
As  human,  quick  to  joy  or  pain. 

Love  as  the  human  loves,  and  weep, 

Too,  as  the  human  drops  a  tear; 
Sing  while  you  toil,  smile  while  you  sleep — 

This  is  the  prayer  that  God  can  hear. 

'Tis  not  the  heav'n-aspiring  peak 

That  tells  me  all  my  heart  would  know; 

The  clouds  beneath  far  better  speak 
His  presence  in  the  vale  below. 


92  PRA  YER. 

The  vale,  whence  dewy  vapors  soar 

To  fill  those  clouds  with  hoarded  showers — 

The  self-same  dews,  so  faint  before, 
Revive,  in  rain,  a  thousand  flowers ! 

Then  pray — your  prayers,  though  weak  they  be, 
God  gathers  as  the  cloud  the  dew; 

Transmutes,  to  fall  as  blessings  free, 
And  gladden  one  you  love  and  you. 

All  we  who  love  may  with  you  pray, 

And,  through  these  treasured  prayers  of  ours, 

All  earth  be  wreathed  in  bloom,  like  May — 
That  bloom,  sad  hearts,  revived  like  flowers. 


REMONSTRANCE.  93 


REMONSTRANCE. 

WITH    A   SPRAY   OF   TRAILING-ARBUTUS. 

To  you  this  dainty,  fragrant  spray 

But  simple  spring-time  bloom  may  be; 

Would  I  could  find  fit  words  to  say 
All  that  its  beauty  says  to  me! 

Forgive  me,  if  I  cannot  reach 

The  peak  on  which  your  spirit  dwells; 
The  dews,  and  not  the  glaciers,  teach 

Those  who  cull  flowers  in  shady  dells. 

You  pray  to  God  enthroned  in  light, 
Majestic  name,  all  names  above; 

Perhaps  I  do  not  pray  aright, 
I  only  bless  the  hearts  I  love. 


94  REMONSTRANCE. 

My  God  is  very  low,  you  say, 

Yours  dwells  in  wondrous  heights  sublime ; 
The  blossoms  speak  of  sure  decay, 

And  nature,  but  revenge  for  crime. 

I  listen, — and  I  might  believe, 

But  through  these  floral  lips  a  voice 

Soft  whispers,  tells  me  I  deceive 

My  heart,  if  blooms  say  not,  "  Rejoice !" 

I  want  no  higher  God  than  He 

Who  bade  the  lilies  tell  His  power; 

Prayer-mists  and  blessing-rains,  to  me 
Make  every  thirsting  soul  a  flower. 

With  petal-mouths  our  own  woods  say, 

While  fields  and  meadows  swell  the  chord : 

The  ancient  glaciers  here  gave  way 
To  leave  a  garden  for  the  Lord! 


REMONSTRANCE.  95 

Dear  prophet,  take  the  poet's  word — 

Say,  Flowers  shall  smile  where  ice  has  lain ! 

Their  dewy  breath  be  prayer — 'tis  heard 
When  God  sends  down  a  blessing-rain ! 

Say  not,  Bloom  means  disease,  decay, 

Or  say  it  of  my  eyes  and  cheek : 
A  corolla  or  face,  one  way 

God  paints,  of  life  not  death  to  speak. 

Say  not,  Analogies  will  fail — 

God  may  have  left  for  prayers  of  ours 

Provision,  as  for  mists  from  vale, 

The  means  of  blossom-freshening  showers. 

If  I  from  this  low  vale  could  reach 
And  touch  your  hand  upon  the  peak, 

This  spray  would  be  my  gift — all  speech 
Of  mine  were  vain,  for  it  would  speak. 


96  TRUST.— SONG. 


TRUST. 

YOUTH-SPRING  into  man-summer  sped, 
Cried,  Life  only  wearies,  deceives ! 

Trust  faded  away,  as  the  red 

And  yellow  fade  out  of  the  leaves. 

Man-summer,  now  age-autumn,  said, 
Life,  gain  for  all  losses,  receives. 

And  trust  came  again,  as  the  red 

And  yellow  come  back  to  the  leaves. 


SONG. 

VIOLET-EYES  in  the  grass, 

Souls  of  my  true  love's  eyes, 

Thoughts  of  her,  as  I  pass, 
Up  from  your  purple  rise. 


SONG.  97 

Petal-lips  on  the  trees, 

Shades  of  my  true  love's  lips, 

Smiles  like  hers,  on  the  breeze, 
Float  from  your  crimson  tips. 


SONG. 

THE  wind  through  the  harp-chords  swept, 
As  they  were  a  barrier  strong; 

But  sighed,  as  though  sad  Love  wept, 
And  died  in  a  thrilling  song. 

My  soul,  through  its  prison-bars, 

Would  dash  like  the  tempest  strong; 

But  sighs,  'neath  the  fatal  stars, 
And  dies  in  a  plaintive  song! 


Of  TH1 

TJHI7BRSIT7 


WINGS  AND  SONG. 


WINGS    AND    SONG. 

O  BIRD  on  the  spray, — fly,  fly  not  away ! 

Your    head's    nodding    crest,    your    crimson-hued 

breast, 

Your  plumage  so  bright,  appeal  to  my  sight — 
Your  small,  dainty  feet,  so  tapering,  so  neat — 
O  bird,  I  would  paint  you — stay,  stay  your  flight ! 
But  birds  will  not  stay — they  fly  swift  away! — 
His  gold-gleaming  crown  might  be  sombre  brown 
For  all  I  can  paint,  as  soaring  he  sings, — 
And,  seen  in  the  distance,  a  bird  is  all  wings ! 

Come  back  to  the  spray — O  bird  with  me  stay! — 
Sweet  bird,  can  you  teach  your  magic  of  speech? 


WINGS  AND  SONG.  99 

My    heart    strangely    thrills,    while     ripple    your 

trills  !— 

O  music  of  birds,  could  I  learn  your  words, 
The  world  I  would  tell  how  God's  love  o'erfills ! 
But  birds  will  not  stay — they  fly  swift  away! — 
His  words  and  his  note  one  blended  strain  float, 
And  all  I  can  learn,  as  soars  he  along, 
Is,  heard  in  the  distance,  a  bird  is  all  song! 

O  cloud-heaven's  day — my  bird  fades  away ! — 
Tongue's    charm    to    express — face,    form,    earthly 

dress 

Have  faded  in  flight  from  hearing  and   sight ! — 
O  world,  say  of  me,  when  I  float  as  free- 
Say,  Spirit  and  soul  are  music  and  flight! 
In  heaven's  full  day,  as  I  fade  away, 
My  spirit-song  hear,  my  soul-flight  see  clear, — 
Say,  Soul  still  aspires ! — say,  Spirit  still  sings  ! — 
As    birds    in    the    distance    are    songs     and    are 

wings ! 


100  OUR  NUMERATION. 


OUR    NUMERATION. 

IN  our  twenties — and  the  blossoms 

Drifted  by  in  fragrant  snow; 
Skies  were  blue,  and  we  together 

Chose  the  path  that  we  should  go. 
Violets  bloomed  and  grasses  nodded, 

Springing  by  our  lingering  feet; 
And  we  laughed  and  kissed  each  other, 

Singing  gayly,  "  Life  is  sweet !" 

In  our  thirties — crimson  berries 

Blushed  'neath  emerald  banners  bright; 

Royal  orchids  veiled  their  purple 
From  the  careless  seeker's  sight. 

Solemn  forest  shades  above  us 
Both  our  voices  strangely  stilled; 


OUR  NUMERATION.  101 

But  we  closer  drew  together, 

Hands  with  sylvan  treasures  filled. 

In  our  sixties — open  meadows 

Now  beguile  our  wandering  feet; 
Memory's  orchids,  forests,  blossoms, 

Fields  and  clouds  are  ever  sweet; 
But  we  best  love  aster's  sapphires, 

And  lobelia's  spikes  of  flame; 
While  our  hearts,  like  autumn's  maples, 

Burn  and  glow,  for  each,  the  same. 

In  our  eighties — we  have  cheated 

Frost  and  fled  before  the  snow ; 
In  a  southern  clime  we're  waiting 

Till  our  King  shall  bid  us  go. 
Resting  here,  beneath  the  palm-trees, 

By  the  sweet-breathed  myrtles  fanned — 
'Tis  not  long,  our  second  spring-time, 

Tis  not  far,  the  morning  land. 


102  THE  STREAM  AND    THE  SONG. 


THE    STREAM    AND    THE    SONG. 


NONE  heard  the  song  that  sweetly  thrilled 
And  all  a  poet's  heart-depths  filled. 

'Twas  like  a  hidden  woodland  spring, 
Pure,  deep,  and  gently  murmuring 

Of  when  'twould  flow,  in  silvery  tones, 
Out  to  the  world  of  weary  ones, 

Reviving,  gladdening,  every  day, 
New  beauty  marking  all  its  way. 

ii. 

A  fiery  drought  devoured  the  spring; 
The  poet  died  ere  he  could  sing. 


THE  STREAM  AND  THE  SONG.     103 

Then,  though  flowed  neither  song  nor  stream, 
Were  they  but  as  an  empty  dream? 

Look  at  those  wondrous  clouds  of  gold — 
They  an  ephemeral  spring  now  hold. 

It  will  in  gentle  dews  distil, 
Its  mission  silently  fulfil. 

May  not  the  unsung  song,  then,  be 
Heard  now  in  heavenly  minstrelsy? 

May  angels  breathe  its  tenderness 

Through  aching  hearts  to  teach  them  peace? 

Yes !     And  the  poet  knows  his  voice, 
Unheard,  made  many  sad  rejoice. 

in. 

Thence  let  us  draw  this  inference  sweet — 
God  lays  no  stones  to  trip  our  feet. 


104  TRANSITION. 

Some  glad  day  we  may  find  it  true 
That  we  were  greater  than  we  knew. 

When  earnest  works  unfinished  rise 
They  may  be  veiled  from  mortal  eyes, 

But  in  transcendent  splendor  shine, 
Completed  by  a  hand  Divine. 


TRANSITION. 

FAREWELL,  my  youth ! 

I  cast  my  girlhood's  garlands  from  me  now 
To  take  the  woman's  crown  upon  my  brow. 

I  press  my  hands 

Where  withered  roses  have  so  lately  been, 
All  blighted  by  the  fevered  brain  within. 


TRANSITION.  105 

Go  quickly,  youth ! 

With  no  regrets  I  see  thee  fast  depart, 
Sad  time  of  blasted  hopes  and  breaking  heart. 

We  all  have  lived 

Enough  to  see  life's  falsity  in  youth, 
But  not  enough  to  know  its  blessed  truth. 

Our  eyes  are  clear 

Enough  to  see  the  crosses  in  our  road, 
But  we  are  still  too  weak  to  bear  the  load. 

I  look  not  back, 

Lest  all  life  seem  a  mockery.     Lord,  through  tears 
Give  me  true  vision  for  my  coming  years. 

All,  all  that  blooms 

Of  sweetness  for  me  in  this  desert  land — 
Sure,  I  shall  find  it  by  Thy  leading  hand. 


106  SONG. 

If  I  may  choose, 

I  ask  an  opal  soul,  white,  free  from  sin, 
Thy  burning  glory  lighting  all  within. 


SONG. 

A  SINGLE  flower  has  but  few  petals, 
But  she  has  wealth  of  heart; 

Oh,  who  for  a  dead  miser's  metals 
With  living  gold  would  part? 

A  double  flower  riots  in  petals, 

Absorbed  is  all  her  heart; 
Oh,  who  for  the  world's  sordid  metals 

With  love's  sweet  wealth  would  part? 


HIDDEN  TREASURES.— TO  A  FERN. 


HIDDEN    TREASURES. 

A  ROSE  was  hidden  deep  in  green, 

Like  birdling  in  its  nest; 
Its  fragrance  spake,  itself  scarce  seen,- 

And  now  'tis  on  thy  breast. 

So  hides  for  thee  a  heart, — as  sweet 
Its  voice  as  breath  of  rose : 

Come  find  this  heart — 'tis  surely  meet 
To  share  thy  flower's  repose! 


107 


TO    A    FERN. 

POETS  tell  us,  half  in  sorrow, 
Of  sweet  music  never  sung; 

But  not  one  regret  I  borrow — 

Deepest  heart-songs  need  no  tongue, 


108  TO  A   FERN. 

And  leaves  and  lives,  in  quiet  beauty  growing, 
Need  no  bright  flower-crown  for  perfect  showing. 

Some  souls  live  in  preparation, 
Then  to  brilliant  climax  rise; 
Others,  seeming  all  negation, 

Hide  their  worth  from  careless  eyes; 
But,  gorgeous  bloom  or  sheltering  leaves  enfolding, 
All  seeds  are  pregnant  thoughts,  the  future  holding. 

Seeing  thee,  I  do  not  wonder 

That  the  Celtic  poet-mind 
Oft,  thy  filmy  plume-tufts  under, 

Homes  of  fairy-folk  could  find; 
Or  that  their  code  a  judgment  dire  included 
For  him  who  on  their  sanctity  intruded. 

Or  that  gods,  in  myth-tales  olden, 
Gave  their  favored  ones  alone 


TO  A   FERN.  109 

Sights  by  mortals  unbeholden, 

Showed  them  where  thy  blossoms  shone. 
Invisible  to  all,  thy  magic  flower 
Kept  him  unseen  who  wore  one  as  his  dower. 


But  the  human  has  grown  stronger, 

At  his  Father's  table  fed; 
Like  the  world,  a  child  no  longer, 

God,  not  Ceres,  gives  him  bread; 
And  when  his  heart  toward  poet-land  is  leaning, 
Truth's  pure,  dim  spirit-world  is  now  his  meaning. 


Then,  since  beauties  soon  must  perish 

Which  on  fleeting  fancies  rest 
(Dew  on  cobwebs),  let  us  cherish 

Loveliness  in  truth  as  best. 

I  lift  thy  fronds  to  read  my  life's  whole  history — 
How  thin  a  veil  divides  my  touch  and  mystery! 

10 


HO  TO  A  FERN. 

By  a  sorrel-leaf  God's  servant 

Taught  His  triune  nature  well; 
Christ  Himself,  His  love  pure,  fervent, 

Did  through  grass  and  lilies  tell : 
So  may  I  say,  in  humble  adoration — 
A  simple  fern  may  preach  the  Incarnation ! 

And  the  wisest  cannot  show  us 

Why  God  makes  or  cancels  law ; 
All  around,  above,  below  us, 

Wonders  fail  to  wake  our  awe — 
If  He  with  unveiled  face  would  smile  and  love  us, 
We'd  think  it  common  as  His  sun  above  us ! 

Ah  I  high  o'er  this  fern-bank's  waving 

Fronded  forests  grandly  rise, 
Crystal  streams  the  palm-groves  laving — 

Eden  meets  my  ravished  eyes ; 
And  when  my  tears  shut  out  that  radiant  vision, 
My  soul  sings,  Fadeless  is  the  land  Elysian ! 


SONNET. 


SONNET. 

MY  heart  is  like  a  forest-well,  I  think, 

Deep-hid  by  sylvan  shades  from  dazzling  day ; 
And  only  thou,  my  king,  canst  from  it  drink, 

For  to  it  no  one  else  can  find  the  way. 
The  sheltering  moss  has  never  felt  the  sink 

Of  alien  steps;   and  thou,  mute  voices  say, 
Art  lord  of  the  domain,  for  round  the  brink 

Memorials  of  thee  fair  seasons  lay : 
Tall,  feathery  fern  recalls  thy  stately  grace ; 

Arbutus-breath  thy  conquering  lowliness ; 
Rich  orchis  thy  rare  soul  of  royal  race; 

Thy  pure  eyes  glow  in  aster's  azure  dress. 
And  o'er  the  still  depths  bending,  thou  canst  trace 
Within  them  nothing  but  thine  own  sweet  face. 


112          THEN,  NOW,  AND  HEREAFTER. 


THE    ROSE    AND    THE    HEART. 

THE  rose,  like  a  life,  a  loveliness  holds, 
And  sweeter  its  breath  doth  grow; 

But  whether  to  bloom  or  to  blight  it  unfolds, 
The  heart  is  the  last  to  glow. 

The  rose,  like  a  life,  must  wither  full  soon, 

And  low  all  its  pride  be  laid; 
But,  falling  at  even,  or  scorched  in  the  noon, 

The  heart  is  the  last  to  fade. 


THEN,    NOW,    AND    HEREAFTER, 

i. 

O  CHERISHED  heart, 

Thou  knowest  when  my  spirit  drooped  in  pain, 
And  gently  thou  didst  bid  me  hope  again. 


THEN,  NOW,  AND  HEREAFTER.          II3 

My  wearied  soul, 

"Like  gladdened  lark,  with  sudden  thrill  would  rise 
And  soar  to  the  blue  heaven  of  thine  eyes. 

Their  wondrous  light 
Seemed    like    the    gold    through    azure   poured   at 

morn — 
And  where  the  singer's  lost,  the  song  is  born. 

And  soft  the  strain, 
Or  ringing  jubilant,  the  humble  bird 
Cares  only  that  the  skies  and  sun  have  heard. 

ii. 

Long  years  have  passed, 
And  now  my  soul,  like  tired  lark,  doth  soar 
To  warm  blue  skies  and  golden  sun  no  more. 

Her  notes  are  hushed; 

Beside  her  ruined  nest,  'mid  leaves  and  mould, 
Alone  she  cowers  in  the  damp  and  cold, 

h  10* 


114  MINOR   TO  MAJOR. 

But  still  a  song 

Is  quivering  faintly,  though  her  voice  is  dumb. 
And  some  glad  day  a  flood  of  joy  will  come ; 

For  once  again, 

Like  gladdened  lark,  my  longing  soul  shall  rise 
And  soar  to  the  blue  heaven  of  thine  eyes. 


MINOR    TO    MAJOR. 

I  AM  no  sad-voiced  singer, 

Although  my  strains  be  low — 

Yet  tears  are  ever  filling 
The  wells  of  human  woe. 

I  know  that  desert  rovers 

Oft  thirst  for  cooling  showers; 

I  know  that  Arctic  dwellers 
Have  never  seen  the  flowers. 


MINOR    TO  MAJOR.  115 

I  know  that  graves  are  yawning, 

Engulfing  heart  from  heart; 
I  know  that  hands  are  clasping, 

While  souls  are  worlds  apart. 

I  think  of  mothers  weeping 

Beside  their  dying  ones; 
But  more  of  mother-spirits 

Who  never  kissed  their  sons. 

I  think  of  true  lives  parted 

By  slander's  cruel  breath; 
But  more  of  chilling  silence, 

A  deeper  death  than  death! 

Oh,  weary,  bitter  longings ! 

Oh,  agonizing  moan ! 
Oh,  eyes  with  lips  vain-speaking 

As  ice  might  speak  with  stone ! 


OF  TOT"** $3 

W71RSITY; 


Il6  MINOR   TO  MAJOR. 

Ah  me!   the  serpent  traileth 
Forever  'mid  our  bowers, 

And  though  his  sting  be  vanquished, 
The  mourning  still  is  ours. 


Let  those  who  tell  of  scourgings 

For  sins  for  evermore, 
Hear  cease  the  minor  waitings, 

The  song  of  triumph  soar. 

Through  chords  harmonious  swelling, 
Then  throbbing  to  the  skies, 

All  souls  shall  change  to  music, 
To  joy  all  tear-filled  eyes. 

Roll  on,  O  mighty  chorus ! 

In  love,  all  hearts  shall  blend 
Like  notes  in  holy  anthem, 

Outpouring,  without  end! 


PREMONITION. 


PREMONITION. 

I  THINK  of  thee  as  mine  when  dawn 
Comes  flushing  all  the  eastern  sky; 

I  think  of  thee  as  mine  when  morn 
Proclaims  the  glowing  sun  on  high. 

For  morning  means  that  radiant  noon 

Will  come,  a  blaze  of  glory,  soon. 

I  think  of  thee  as  mine  when  fades 
The  twilight  into  sheltering  night; 

I  think  of  thee  as  mine  when  shades 
Shut  out  from  earth  her  veil  of  light. 

For  evening  means  that  slumber's  call 

Will  bid  us  cease  from  labors  all. 

I  think  of  thee  as  mine  when  light 
Has  spangled  all  the  skies  with  gold ; 


Il8  FAITH  AND  SIGHT. 

• 

I  think  of  thee  as  mine  when  night 

Her  sheltering  robe  o'er  all  has  rolled. 
For  night  doth  mean  that  blushing  morn 
Again  upon  us  soon  will  dawn. 


FAITH    AND    SIGHT. 

THE  red  maple  hung  out  her  tassels, 
As  bright  as  the  ruby's  ray; 

And  said,  When  you  see  my  pompons 
That  means,  it  is  almost  May. 


But  the  wind  blew  his  loud,  shrill  trumpet, 
And  we,  with  the  doubt  of  youth, 

Declared  that  the  flame-robed  maple 
Paid  little  regard  to  truth. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  ROSE.  119 

Till  the  wind  shook  away  the  tassels 
To  show  the  green,  budding  leaves ; 

And  we  have  grown  humbler,  wiser — 
Faith  sees,  but  she  first  believes! 


THE   CHRISTMAS    ROSE. 

WHY  so  spotless,  Christmas  rose? 
Pearly  as  the  winter  snows, 
You  in  bleak  December  gleam, 
Snow-flakes  pure  your  petals  seem. 

Ask  you  why  my  blooms  are  white  ? 
Only  change  your  faith  to  sight — 
Read  what  every  saint  believes, 
Written  out  in  floral  leaves. 

Sprung  from  harsh  and  poisonous  roots, 
Borne  on  rank  and  bitter  shoots, 


120  TWO  SIGHTS. 

Yet  behold  my  blossom  fair, 
Shining  through  the  wintry  air. 

Would  the  thoughtless  e'er  suppose 
Hellebore  was  Christmas  rose? 
Can  the  noxious  plant  afford 
Homage  to  the  Christian's  Lord? 

Will  you  learn,  then,  from  a  flower? 
Doubt  not  our  Redeemer's  power 
From  a  life,  with  bitter  past, 
Perfect  bloom  to  bring  at  last. 


TWO    SIGHTS. 

THEY  saw  a  maiden  without  gift  or  grace ; 
God  saw  heav'n-longings  in  her  upturned  face. 

They  saw  a  feeble  hand  which  empty  hung; 
God  saw  how  tightly  to  the  Cross  it  clung. 


THE   TRUMPET  CREEPER.  121 

They  saw  a  life  which  no  life  ever  blessed; 
God  saw  how  closely  in  His  way  she  pressed. 

They  saw  a  still,  cold  form,  o'er  which  none  wept ; 
God  saw  the  angels  watching  where  she  slept. 

They  saw  a  lowly  grave,  unmarked,  forgot; 
God  saw  a  home  for  her  which  changeth  not! 

We  see  this  daily:   dark  will  be  our  sight, 

As  through  a  glass,  till  cleared  for  heav'nly  light. 


THE    TRUMPET    CREEPER. 

Ho,  fairies,  come  here,  I  have  something  to  show — 
Of  all  your  old  music  you're  tired,  I  know ; 
So   long   you've   rung   chimes   from   the   hyacinth 
bell, 

From  lilies,  campanulas — ah,  I  know  well 
p  ii 


122  THE   TRUMPET  CREEPER. 

That   flutes   made  of  wheat-stalks   and   organs    of 

reeds 

Won't  answer  a  fairy  musician's  full  needs; 
So  come,  elfin  orchestra,  round  by  this  wall — 
I  have  something  here  to  astonish  you  all ! 


A  rough,  woody  vine  that  escaped  being  tree, 
With  finger-like  roots  climbed  the  stones,  as  you 

see; 
Then   threw  out   green   leaflets,  all   clustered   and 

veined, 
Like    victor-palms    marking    each    stage    it    had 

gained, 

And  then  it  ran  riot,  in  mimicking  bowers, 
And   laughed   out   its   glee   in   a   thousand    bright 

flowers. 

Ah,  fairies,  I  wonder  if  that  rough  vine  knew 
It  ever  would  bear  scarlet  trumpets  for  you ! 


REPUBLICANISM.  12$ 

Play  cornets  of  coral,  and  carbuncle's  glow, 
That  through  your  sweet  music  the  glad  vine  may 

know 

That  we,  who  enjoy  its  bright  bloom  at  this  time, 
Forget  not  that  first  came  a  long,  weary  climb: 
Because  we  are  mindful  of  all  it  endured 
Ere   blossoms  of   fire  from  brown  bark  were  en- 
sured, 

The  dear  vine  will  laugh,  all  the  gayer  in  glee, 
With  sun-tinted  corols  for  you  and  for  me ! 


REPUBLICANISM       (THREE       GEN- 
ERATIONS). 

First. 
SQUIRE  CECIL,  at  his  high-arched  gate, 

Stood  with  his  son  and  heir; 
Around  him  spread  his  rich  estate, 

Near  rose  his  mansion  fair. 


124  REPUBLICANISM. 

And  when  a  neighbor,  ragged,  sad, 

Unlearned,  passed  that  way, 
The  father  turned,  and  to  the  lad 

These  kindly  words  did  say: 

"  There  goes  poor  Muggins !     Ah,  my  son, 

How  thankful  we  should  be 
That  our  republic  gives  a  chance 

To  fellows  such  as  he!" 


Third. 

Miss  Muggins  blazed  in  jewelled  light, 

And  swept  in  silken  sheen; 
Her  courtiers  thought  a  maid  so  bright 

And  beauteous  ne'er  was  seen. 
Aloft  she  held  her  haughty  head, 

Surveyed  her  Paris  clothes: 
"And  I  must  patronize,"  she  said, 

"  Miss  Cecil,  I  suppose. 


IN  AN  ORCHARD. 

"She's  poor,  she  teaches,  has  no  style! 

In  Europe,  now — but,  oh ! 
In  this  republic  we're  compelled 

To  meet  all  kinds,  you  know!" 


IN    AN    ORCHARD. 

THIS  tree  from  its  treasures  will  toss  some 
To  him  who  lies  low  at  its  root — 

A  shell-tinted  flake  of  fresh  blossom, 
A  coral-streaked  moon  of  ripe  fruit. 

So  Love  from  her  treasures  will  toss  some 
To  him  who  waits,  scorning  pursuit — 

A  promise  as  pink  as  the  blossom, 
Reality  red  as  the  fruit. 

ii* 


I26  VALLEY  FORGE  ARBUTUS. 


VALLEY    FORGE    ARBUTUS. 

GRAND  hills!   rear  your  heavenward  claim, 

Like  patriots'  noble  desire ! 
Like  altars  colossal,  aflame, 

With  blue,  waving  pines  for  your  fire. 
Like  Liberty's  torches,  they  live 

While  earth  seems  one  winter-bound  tomb, 
And  shelter,  the  soonest  to  give 

Defiance  to  Death,  sparks  of  bloom. 

The  chief  trod  these  hills— did  he  think 

The  sky  not  above,  but  below, 
When  first  he  saw  planets  of  pink, 

With  scarce-cleared-away  clouds  of  snow? 
Or  start,  sad  forebodings  forgot? — 

The  drooping,  or  uplifted  eye 


VALLEY  FORGE  ARBUTUS.  i2 

Can  each  meet  a  heaven,  for  not 
Up,  down,  but  to  God,  is  the  sky! 

Toy  trumpets  whose  mimicry  shamed 

The  almond's  and  vale-lily's  hue, 
With  star-mouths,  whose  breath  not  the  famed 

Sweet  Arabic  scents  ever  knew; 
Trailed  leaves,  like  the  hero's  own  bays, 

Undying  and  green  evermore — 
Hope's  message,  amid  his  dark  days, 

You  brought,  as  to  Pilgrims  before: 

"  If  buds  'mid  dead  leaves  can  survive, 

If  green  can  be  fresh  'mid  the  snow, 
Then  Freedom  is  ever  alive, 

And  still  it  must  blossom  and  grow." 
What  else  could  your  perfume-notes  say? 

God  wills  that  a  flower  brave  the  blast — 
Can  He,  then,  from  man  turn  away, 

Mock  hopes  the  sublimest  at  last? 


128  VALLEY  FORGE  ARBUTUS. 

The  chief,  from  the  hills  which  his  fame 

Uphold  to  the  stars  and  the  sun, 
Descended,  and  down  the  vale  came 

To  where  dwelt  of  women  the  one. 
Why  seemed  he  no  longer  depressed  ? 

Why  scarcely  for  joy  could  he  speak  ? 
He  pinned  in  the  mull  o'er  her  breast 

A  spray  like  the  tints  in  her  cheek. 

How  simple  the  act ! — but  it  meant 

A  gift  from  Omnipotent  hands. 
Who  doubts  the  prophetic  event, 

Or,  reading  it,  misunderstands  ? 
The  hero  saw  Liberty's  bloom 

Adorning  her  altars  above, 
And  brought  it  to  earth's  valley-gloom, 

And  placed  on  the  shrine  of  his  love. 

The  altars  of  old  were  enwreathed 

With  vervain,  most  sacred  of  flowers — 


VALLEY  FORGE  ARBUTUS. 

What  altars  such  incense  e'er  breathed — 
And  have  we  no  garlands  for  ours? 

These  hills  speak  their  choice — we  must  take 
To  give  they  have  best  right  and  power — 

The  Trailing  Arbutus  must  make 
America's  national  flower! 


THE   END. 


VB   I  1917 


6SS9O 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


